


You're Not Alone

by Space_and_Thyme



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abandoned Child, Adopted Children, Bucky Barnes Fluff, Bucky uses his skills as the Winter Soldier to avenge himself, Bucky willingly calls himself the Winter Soldier, Cold Weather, Drabble, Forgery, Gen, I got thinking about how there's not enough Dad!Bucky fic, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Parent Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Russia, Russian Bucky Barnes, Siberia, This is probably like... an au of my au?, Translation for Russian lines is visible if you hover over them, other fics of mine aren't necessary for this, single dad bucky barnes, travel by train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 17:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: On a self-appointed mission into Siberia, the Winter Soldier finds a crying baby left alone in a stairwell. Bucky can't bring himself to leave her behind.





	You're Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Most information is already in the tags - I don't _think_ I forgot anything. This was written because I was under a good deal of stress, and I needed more single dad!Bucky fics lol.
> 
> There's two Russian phrases, but if you hover over them they'll show the English translations.

When he’d left, he swore that he would never come back. That he had not clawed his way out of the deepest circle of Hell, only to find himself there once more. But, if he hadn’t…

Going back, in the end, had given him something to live for beyond just the cold burning revenge and wrath that seemed to wrap around his very bones.

It was the best time to strike – deep in the middle of the bleak season when the temperatures dropped so low that exposed flesh froze in a blink of an eye. He was more than well aware that even the top operatives had withdrawn into their homes to wait out the extent of the cold snap.

But he was the Winter, and he was the only one capable of bearing the unbearable temperatures.

It wasn’t the screams or the begging for mercy that cut through his enhanced hearing – in fact those were completely tuned out. The Soldier had no empathy for those who had made him – even if the other aspects of his mind did. The Soldier was the one in charge in these moments.

It wasn’t the screaming or the begging. What attracted his attention was the wailing. A small, desperate, whinging. Like a child.

When his task was completed, and the physical evidence completely obliterated in a way that only one such as he could manage, he went to investigate.

Outside, it seemed to come a little louder – no longer muffled by multiple layers of concrete. But, if it hadn’t been for his bastardised version of the Super Soldier Serum, he would never have heard the desperation or the screeching. Heart thumping in his chest, he followed the sound to a large, concrete, apartment building a third of a block away from his mission location. He slipped inside with little effort – the locks were inefficient and stood no chance against the strength of his metal hand.

Inside, the shrieking was louder, and echoing. He cocked his head and listened, as his brows furrowed behind his black-out goggles. Beneath his mask he frowned. The sound appeared to be coming from a stairwell.

He walked up eight flights in the freezing building before he found the source.

Alone, barely covered by a flannel blanket, a baby lay on the cold concrete of the landing. She was helpless – terrified and crying so hard that she was pink with effort, and red-cheeked from the cold. At the sight of his imposing, dark, figure standing over her, she hiccupped and tried to cry harder.

His chest tightened, and he immediately set his rifle to the floor, and pulled free his moulded thermoplastic mask, and goggles, revealing his face. “[Тссс, ты в порядке](%D0%A2%D1%81%D1%81%D1%81,%20%D1%82%D1%8B%20%D0%B2%20%D0%BF%D0%BE%D1%80%D1%8F%D0%B4%D0%BA%D0%B5)” he shushed gently as he knelt down slowly in front of her. Even in his lined tactical gear, he could feel the cold of the concrete seeping in his lowered knee. Without pause, he reached and carefully picked the wailing child up in his hands – the metal one fully covered, and the right wearing finger-less gloves – better for sniping.

The Soldier did not know how to care for a child, least of all one who was this young. But that didn’t matter; Sergeant Barnes still remembered – it was in the marrow of his bones.

She hiccupped in fear – half exhausted from her ordeal – as she rubbed at her eyes with one tiny hand. She was cold in his touch, but not cold enough to yet be fatal. He’d found her in time – it hadn’t been more than an hour since he’d first heard her crying.

He eased himself back onto his feet, bringing her up with him as he worked the top buttons of his sheepskin lined coat open, and pushed the sides apart with one hand, as he held the trembling, sobbing, bundle in the comforting curve of his other arm. Deftly he worked the closures of his tactical gear open, pushed aside his steel dog tags until they hung down his spine, and popped open the buttons of his black thermal Henley. He’d been prepared for the cold – layering – which served his purpose now.

She was still crying – wailing if he was being honest. But inside, the Sergeant gently reminded him that she wasn’t crying from fear of him anymore, but from the cold. He’d been lucky to find her – any longer and the child would have succumbed to the frigid Novosibirsk winter. He tugged the collar of the Henley open and downward, exposing his collarbone and the top of his white singlet, before he carefully shifted the small baby into the grasp of his right hand. He eased her down slowly, leaning back enough to push his breast forward, as he lowered her into the open maw of his shirt. The fabric was warm from the heat of his body.

Her skin was frigid, but he carefully arranged her against the warm wall of his chest – settling her so that her podgy, apple-red, cheek laid over his breast. So she could both feel and hear the steady, strong, beating of his heart. The child shivered hard, as her body adapted from the bitter winter air to the furnace-like warmth of the Soldier’s body heat. He stroked the backs of his fingers gently over her cheeks, brushing away her tears as she whimpered and settled into the heat and safety- burying her face in the white cotton of his undershirt.

“[ты в безопасности, детка](%D1%82%D1%8B%20%D0%B2%20%D0%B1%D0%B5%D0%B7%D0%BE%D0%BF%D0%B0%D1%81%D0%BD%D0%BE%D1%81%D1%82%D0%B8,%20%D0%B4%D0%B5%D1%82%D0%BA%D0%B0).” He murmured softly, the rumble of his whiskey-gravel voice from deep within his chest seemed to sooth her as much as his heat.

He made sure she was secure in her position, before buttoning the lowest button of the Henley’s collar, so it closed over the back of her small neck to keep the heat in. He closed up enough of the leather tactical gear to support her slight weight and keep her safely against him, before he brushed a barely-there kiss to the downy hair on top of her tiny head, and closed his coat against the winter wind.

Without hesitation he picked up his rifle and slung its strap over his shoulder in one fluid movement.

A moment later, he was gone again, disappearing into the blizzard as though he’d never been there. There were no signs of him – and no traces left of the former HYDRA operatives that he’d come to Novosibirsk to eliminate.

He was still a ghost story.

The only good thing that he could say about HYDRA, was that they’d trained him to withstand anything thrown at him. But, it was his own slightly nefarious history from the days of his youth, running with less than reputable men in Brooklyn, that gave him the skills he needed now.

He created their official documents – perfect forgeries – a Russian passport for himself, and a birth certificate for the little girl. He listed himself (with his surname first, as was Russian way with official documents, first name second, and his patronymic name last) as Yanukovich Rostislav Valeryevich, and his daughter Yanukovich Yaryna Rostislavovna. Slava and Yaryna for short. He estimated Yaryna’s age to be approximately two months, and listed her date of birth as November 29th of the previous year.

With their documents locked down, Slava bought a train ticket back to Moscow from Ob – 17 kilometers west of Novosibirsk – where he’d holed himself up long enough to create their documents and feed the little girl he’d unofficially adopted.

The first rule of going on the run while blending in was walk, don’t run, and it applied as purposefully to the calm and gentle self-extraction from a mission. So, before the Soldier left Ob, he disassembled his rifle, and packaged it along with his tactical gear into three separate parcels, which he shipped home to the United States by three separate companies. He softened his image down from the arctic demon, to any other young millennial father.

So it was, that when Slava boarded the train to Moscow, he was dressed softly – still in his sheepskin lined coat, with little Yaryna tucked safely against his chest – with only a duffle bag over one shoulder, and a diaper bag hanging from his elbow. His long dark hair had been washed silky soft and was loosely piled into a bun, allowing a few too-short pieces to brush against his cheekbones. He was unshaven, but the shadow of his dark stubble managed to soften the sharp lines of his jaw, and made his silver eyes seem warm and tender. The holographic skin over his left arm completely disguised the tell-tale titanium of the Winter Soldier’s prosthetic, and showed as soft and warm olive-toned skin that matched the rest of him.

He looked like any other young man, and not the most dangerous man on the planet.

On the train, he shrugged himself out of his coat and set it aside, holding Yaryna safely in the crook of his arm. He settled into the seat, and brought the baby girl up to his face as he ducked down – smiling softly as he gently nuzzled her tender cheek. In turn Yaryna wiggled and smiled brightly as Slava quietly babbled at her in a combination of languages – saying whatever came to mind, and letting his whiskey-gravel rumble soothe her. He gasped playfully as she flapped her hands at him, and widened his eyes. Leaning in again, he rubbed his nose against hers affectionately and sat back against the plush upholstery. He tickled under Yaryna’s chin with the tip of his right index finger – making her squawk and smile gummily as she flapped her arms around again – before suddenly yawning wide.

Taking that as the sign it was, he leaned back and laid her down on his chest, where she instantly snuggled in closer with her tiny fingers gripping the soft fabric of his thermal shirt. Yaryna was soundly asleep within a short amount of time, and Slava wasn’t far behind.

It was a two day train passage from Ob back to Moscow. He spent it further bonding with his daughter, and even if the Soldier didn’t remember how to do it, Bucky Barnes himself did – remembered how to take care of small children – he’d been doing it since he was a kid himself. With three younger sisters, and Steve Rogers to look after, it was almost completely instinct by that point.

The two of them were cooed over, by women (and a few families) alike who looked at the young father and his baby daughter with hearts in their eyes. He smiled that warm and dazzling smile that made hearts sing (the one that could always assure Steve had a girl on his arm when Bucky wanted to double date, back in Brooklyn), and chatted happily with anyone that wanted to – part of blending in – and answered the same few questions:

His wife had died in childbirth, so it was just himself and little Yaryna. They’d been visiting family in Ob, and where now heading back to Moscow, where Slava was a software engineer.

When Yaryna wasn’t tucked into his arms, she was lying against his chest, cradled and held in safety by the fit of his shirt and the make-shift sling he’d tied with a scarf that one older woman had given him (he’d tried to decline, but she’d been adamant, and he’d accepted with that small smile and slight head bow that had always made him a hit with the ladies).

One of the calming techniques that he had learned after his escape, and thus used to keep his mind at peace, was knitting. He kept his knitting needles and the large ball of dove blue merino wool (which he’d planned to use to make a cardigan for Steve) in his duffle. So, he often spent the time that Yaryna was sleeping on his chest to do just that – telling one young woman, who boarded at Tyumen who was curious as to what he was making, that he’d learned to knit after his wife passed away. He told her with a self-deprecating smile that he was trying to make a baby blanket for his daughter. But, his embarrassed blush and the little shrug of his shoulders was belied by the tightness and the strength of his stitches.

Between Ob and Moscow he’d managed to knit a blanket roughly three foot by three foot squared. Honestly, he was a little surprised he’d managed that much as well – but the metal arm was tireless and the peace that the repetitive action of knitting and purling rows gave him was enough to let him finish the blanket. It wasn’t like he needed to sleep much anyway.

Yaryna was swaddled in the wool blanket and tucked against his chest as they disembarked in Moscow.

He spent three days in Moscow – forging another set of documents. This time he made himself an American – one Marcus Buckminster (he got a laugh out of that surname) and his daughter, Chloe. This time, the photo in the passport was very clearly not of himself, and that was for the best. Better to not attract any more attention to himself when he was living illegally within the United States while simultaneously being a wanted man. A man with a face that people remembered (apparently for its sheer beauty – which made him snort).

With the holographic technology it was easy enough to slip the perception mask in place and blend in. He only needed it for security and while boarding, after that it could remain unused until they landed.

He bought what they’d need for the eleven hour flight back to New York, and boarded with Chloe in his arms for the 9 am flight.

When they touched down at LaGuardia, Bucky Barnes officially had a daughter.


End file.
